Кейси Майклс - The Secrets of the Heart

These letters, that gave the poor names and made them real, alive, and no longer faceless multitudes, had proven to be an inspiration. Soon the ton had been agog with delicious titillation, all the lords and their ladies certain that this mysterious, eloquent Peacock was one of them, but not knowing his true identity.

But, over time, it hadn’t been enough for Christian to make his peers aware of the problems. He needed the laws changed, and he lived for the day Lord Sidmouth and his hidebound Tory cronies were removed from power. Christian was impatient for change, too impatient to content himself with working entirely behind the scenes.

And that, George remembered now half joyfully, half worriedly, was when the Peacock’s further adventures had been conceived. Christian understood the ton now, had correctly deduced how their minds worked. He saw how they adored being amused, knew they universally despised ambitious mill owners and other tradesmen who believed their newfound wealth had earned them a higher rung on the social ladder, and cleverly surmised how they would rally behind a romantic figure who dashed about righting wrongs and causing Lord Sidmouth and all authority fits.

The first mill owner had bowed to the Peacock’s demands within a week—not twenty-four hours after his vacant country house had mysteriously burned to the ground. The victory was heady, delicious, and soon to be repeated, even enlarged to missions designed to rescue individuals from Lord Sidmouth’s zealous laws—with all of it reported to the populace every week in the Peacock’s entertaining letters.

George had seen this week’s letter before Christian had sent it on to the newspapers, and his comic depiction of the boorish, bombastic Herbert Symington was sure to send Society into convulsions of mirth at that ignorant, greedy man’s expense.

And so it was that Christian, who had carefully set himself up as the last possible person who could be the daring Peacock, was now free to listen to the growing discontent for Lord Sidmouth’s laws within Society, help the peasantry, feel as if he were living out his convictions, and have a jolly good time while he was about it.

Which, George had decided some weeks ago, was precisely the problem.

To George’s mind, since the advent of the Peacock’s adventures throughout the countryside several months ago, Christian had begun to lose sight of his initial mission. He—indeed, all of them—had been caught up in the thrill of the thing, the hairbreadth escapes from Sidmouth’s spies, the purposeful hoodwinking of Society, the power to bend mill owners to their demands.

And at what cost? Lord Sidmouth was drawing down on the masses more cruelly each day, punishing them with ever more oppressive edicts and deeper penalties, taking his revenge on them because he was thus far unable to capture the Peacock.

Now Symington—backed by Lord Undercliff’s fortune—had openly declared that he would not buckle under pressure from the Peacock’s threats. Would Symington hire his own private army of brigands to seek out Christian and the rest of them? It wasn’t inconceivable. And how many more men, poor wretches like this Slow Dickie person, would be made to suffer for Christian’s ideals?

George felt ashamed of himself, hated himself for what he was thinking. He was close to seeing himself as Christian’s Judas, a disciple who loved him dearly, admired him for his good works and high ideals, yet feared for what his friend was doing in the name of goodness. Judas had turned his friend over to his persecutors in the conviction he was helping him, helping those who blindly followed, believing in salvation. Would it come to that? Dear God, don’t let it come to that!

“Grumble? Grumble!” St. Clair called out, laughing. “For the love of heaven, man, pay attention. You’re staring at that candy dish as if it contained golden nuggets. Why not just throw some into your mouth and have done with it? God’s teeth, but that’s revolting. Port and sugarplums,” he said, shuddering. “Now listen for a moment. Winnie has concocted an idea as to what to do about the problem of Slow Dickie. You must hear what he has to say. It’s priceless, Grumble, I promise. Absolutely priceless!”

George looked up, shaking his head to clear it, happy to avoid Christian’s gaze by pretending to concentrate on Sir Gladwin’s scheme. “I know I’m going to regret this, but—what sort of idea, Winnie?”

Sir Gladwin pulled a face, slicing a look at St. Clair. “I don’t know as how I want to repeat it, seeing as how Kit is grinning like a bear.”

“Well, it is different, old friend,” Lord Osmond piped up, winking at George. “Especially that part about dressin’ up poor Grumble here as a washerwoman and settin’ him down in the village square as lookout. Grumble—you think you could manage a wriggle when you walk?”

George rolled his eyes, sighing. How could he have been so stupid? Kit was no Christlike figure, and he, George Trumble, was no traitorous disciple. To think so would be nothing short of blasphemous. They were, all four of them, nothing more than overgrown children, perhaps a little more caring than some, and definitely more foolishly adventuresome than most—but still fairly ordinary, in their own twisted way. Unfortunately, they had placed themselves in extraordinary positions.

George reached for the candy dish. No wonder he ate so much, he thought, sighing again. If he didn’t, he shouldn’t have the strength to worry so much. “Never mind, Winnie. You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

Christian stood up, then leaned one arm negligently against the mantelpiece. “Very well, Grumble. You’re aptly named, I’ll grant you that. I suppose we should move on. After all, I have promised to grace the theater this evening and must soon begin considering my rig-out. Do you suppose the peach would suit? I shouldn’t wish to clash with the draperies.”

Sir Gladwin frowned, obviously considering St. Clair’s question as if it really mattered, which everyone else knew it didn’t. “I don’t know, Kit. Refresh my memory: What color are the draperies?”

George chewed another sugarplum, then quickly swallowed both the confection and his guilt. “Leave it, Winnie,” he said. “Kit’s only trying to muddle our minds so we’ll be confused enough to accept his plan to rescue this poor Slow Dickie fellow. You do have a plan bubbling inside that clever head of yours, don’t you, my friend?”

St. Clair nodded, then flashed his closest friend a bright smile as he took his seat once more, perched just at the edge of the chair, obviously eager to lay his plan out for his friends. “I never could fool you, could I, Grumble? Yes, I have a plan; one that will serve us in two ways. Grumble, Winnie’s notions of you as a washerwoman to one side, tell me: Are you up for a bit of play-acting?”

George stopped his hand inches from his mouth, the sugarplum hanging suspended in air as he narrowed his eyes, looking at St. Clair. “Why?” he asked, already sure he didn’t wish to hear his friend’s answer.

St. Clair leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “No real reason. Let’s just say there is a certain beautiful young lady whose keen intelligence I have never doubted but whose shallow priorities disgusted me. Let us also say that this certain young lady has now shown not only the usual hysterical female interest in the Peacock’s identity but also an unnerving acuity which must be deflected. In other words—”

“Don’t play the dandy with me, Kit. In plain words,” George interrupted, sensing danger, “Gabrielle Laurence is beginning to pierce your disguise—or thinks she is. Damn and blast, Kit, I told you to stay away from her. She’s not brick-stupid like Lady Ariana and the rest. And Miss Laurence is also not at all grateful to you for bringing her into fashion when she was determined to accomplish that feat on her own. I doubt she appreciates going to her bed each night wondering if the great St. Clair is going to cut her the next day, destroying her.”

“True enough, Kit,” Sir Gladwin added. “She don’t like you above half, and anyone with a clear eye can see it. And, the way Grumble tells it, I don’t know as how I can blame her. We all warned you not to tease the chit.”

“Ah, gentlemen,” St. Clair said, pressing his hands to his chest and raising his pitch a notch as he deftly employed the affected tones he used to such advantage in Society, “but I do so delight in her dislike.”

“Well, there’s always that, I suppose,” Lord Osgood said, winking as he snatched the candy dish from George, obviously not bothered that he too would be abusing his palate by mixing fine port with the sugary confections. “Though I never thought I’d live to see you tumble into love, Kit.”

“Love?” George exploded, taken totally off-guard. “Ozzie, however did you come up with such a ridiculous notion?”

“I didn’t,” Lord Osgood answered simply as George looked up at St. Clair in an assessing manner from beneath hooded eyes. “I just now remembered my Aunt Cora once tellin’ me I was top over tail in love with m’cousin Abigail because I was always pinchin’ her. Of course, we were both little more than infants at the time, and when Abby up and married that Dutchman last year I didn’t turn a hair. Never mind, Kit. Sorry I mentioned it.”

“Thinks nothing of it, Ozzie,” St. Clair answered, but, George noticed uneasily, for once his friend’s smile did not quite reach his eyes.

La! Did you ever see such an unpleasant person?

I hope when I grow old I shan’t look like that.

Baroness Orczy

FRAPPLE, I’M SO DAMNABLY tired. All that dashing about from here to there last night, and no less than three different parties this evening, with everyone demanding my presence…” Christian trailed off wearily, collapsing into a chair in his dressing room. “I seem to remember hearing of some equally exhausted man putting a period to his existence some years ago because he had been so defeated by this constant dressing and undressing.”

“I shall have the kitchen staff sequester all the knives at once, my lord,” Frapple answered calmly, continuing to layout his master’s apple-green velvet evening clothes. “And don’t muss your breeches by slouching, if you please. Meg had the devil’s own time pressing them.”

“How good of you to worry so for Meg. Do I scent a romance in the air, Frapple?”

“Hardly, my lord. Riding herd on you at all hours, when would I find the time?” A tall, still ramrod-straight man of two and fifty, Frapple had been Christian’s trusted adviser and man-of-all-work since his lordship had been in short coats, and he did not frazzle easily. Indeed, as he was rumored to be the by-blow of the baron’s great-uncle Clarence St. Clair, he may have come by his flippant nonchalance quite naturally, just as he had come by his slowly graying blond hair and thin, aquiline nose. If it weren’t for the man’s mustache, and his more advanced years, in a dim light Frapple might even be taken for an older Christian.

In any event, Christian loved him as he would have the older brother he’d never had, and Frapple returned this affection, although he refused to allow his lordship to forget their very disparate stations in life.

Christian smiled now at the man he privately considered to be the best of his relatives, then yawned widely. “I won’t be returning home this evening, Frapple, if you wish to spare a moment for romance,” he said, raising his legs in front of him so that he would admire his new evening shoes. “I need to travel to Little Pillington to remind Herbert Symington of my existence. Thank God I’m known not to tarry too long at any one party, and won’t be missed. If I’m lucky, I should be in Little Pillington at least two hours before dawn.”